


The ghost of Trenwith

by Chelidona (Hobbity), Khim_Azaghal



Category: Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Aunt Agatha is badass even beyond death!, F/M, Haunting, Poltergeist, Sabotage, Spooky, Unfinished Business, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:58:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbity/pseuds/Chelidona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khim_Azaghal/pseuds/Khim_Azaghal
Summary: Aunt Agatha has passed away, but her ghost has some business to finish for the sake of her family.





	

 

 

It was dark when Agatha woke up. Darker than usual. Something was wrong. The old woman felt oppressed as if she was locked up in a place much too narrow for her frail frame. A place smaller than a closet. A coffin.

  
  


_This is preposterous!_ She thought _They can’t bury me while I’m still alive!_

  
  


She tried to scream, but no sound came out of her wide open mouth. 

  
  


“Someone tells them I’m not dead! I’m not dead! Verity! Where is Verity?”

  
  


Panicking, Agatha tried to sit up. The shock she felt when she discovered she could pass through the nailed wooden panels almost sent her back to the bottom of the coffin.

  
  


The old woman rose up. She floated up in the misty October air and stood above the grave.

  
  


The priest was now reciting prayers. 

  
  


“I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.” 

  
  


Agatha knew those words by heart. She wondered how many burials she had attended during her extraordinarily long life. Her grandparents, parents, cousins… almost all her family. And there she was, the matriarch of the Poldark family and mistress of Trenwith, still very much alive at more than ninety years old.

  
  


She startled when she heard her name just as the first shovelful of earth scattered across the wooden crate. She couldn’t believe the body inside the grave was hers. 

  
  


When she looked around, she saw five people in the churchyard. Elizabeth was holding little Geoffrey Charles’ hand, and both were sobbing softly. George Warleggan, that upstart, was there as well. The way he was patting Elizabeth’s arm angered Agatha beyond measure. 

  
  


_He didn’t lose time, this one!_ Agatha thought, before paying attention to the priest’s words once again.

  
  


Standing next to Elizabeth, Ross’ look was impenetrable. Verity was clinging to his arm, doing her best to cry in silence. Only the rhythmic clenching of Ross’ hands betrayed his irritation. As soon as the coffin was covered with earth, he left the burial ground in quick, almost angry strides to retrieve his horse and gallop back to Nampara, deaf to Verity’s anxious calls.  
  
  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


All of Agatha’s attempts to talk to Elizabeth failed. Not even Geoffrey Charles paid attention to his old aunt. The dear boy, bless his little Poldark heart, was red-eyed.

  
  


But she was not dead. She could not be.

  
  


When the burial was over, she followed Verity, Elizabeth and Geoffrey Charles back to Trenwith. Her home. Of course that impertinent pignut George Warleggan took them there in his own coach. 

Pah. When her father was alive, pumpions like that Warleggan would have been kicked out by a footman. Or, when the old man was really cross, chased away with dogs.

  
  


There was no food prepared at Trenwith, she noted with disdain. If this had been her funeral, shouldn’t there be drinks and sweetmeats be waiting for the mourners? How dare those tottering, hedge-born louts not hold a proper wake for her?

  
  


Agatha went straight up to her room, ignoring the way George Warleggan followed Elizabeth into the parlour.

  
  


For the first time in months, her room was clean.  She settled down on the bed and closed her eyes, her recent memories of still being alive giving her a palpable illusion of being asleep.

  
  


It was only the following morning that she realised that she was not laying on the bed. She was hovering a few inches above it. And when she got up to walk downstairs, her feet floated over the ground.

  
  


Never one to be deterred, Agatha made her way to the breakfast parlour with renewed determination to make the family notice her.

  
  


There was not even a plate for her. Geoffrey Charles looked upset and could barely be tempted by Elizabeth and Verity to eat some more bread with butter.

  
  


With a huff, Agatha went to her chair and retrieved her tarot cards from the box on the table next to it. It was afternoon by the time she had managed to open it.

  
  


And all she could manage to read in the cards was that there had been a death. And that there were new beginnings.

  
  


She scattered the cards on the floor. As if she hadn’t figured out that much!  
  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


One week after Agatha’s funeral, George Warleggan came to visit Elizabeth and his beloved godson. Pshaw. As if he cared one fig for the boy! He was there to make cow eyes at Elizabeth.

  
  


That little beslubbering upstart. He had wished her dead. Called her an old hag.

  
  


Agatha had been a ghost for one week, ignored even more than she had been in life, and her beloved Tarot cards refused to tell her more than the obvious. Being free of pain and agiler than she had been these past forty years did not make up for the growing frustration.

  
  


The sight of George Warleggan infuriated her more than anything had infuriated her since her first and only suitor had left her for an heiress.

  
  


She floated angrily at the man, berating him as he sweet talked Elizabeth, who soaked it all up, the silly little girl.

  
  


George shuddered a bit when she came closer. Trenwith was vast and draughty; with the limited resources Elizabeth had, fires were only lit in the parlour and Geoffrey Charles’ bedroom. Still, the presence of a ghost caused the temperature to drop further.

  
  


Agatha was so enraged, she did not notice that she walked straight through a little table. The vase on it fell to the floor and broke into a thousand pieces.

  
  


The little start George gave delighted Agatha. He and Elizabeth stared at the vase, their faces reflecting their desperate desire to come up with a logical explanation.

  
  


George finally gave a bow, only slightly less picture perfect than usually. “I apologise. I must have touched the table by accident. I will reimburse you, of course.”

  
  


The table was two feet away from him. Agatha cackled, but of course, nobody heard her.

  
  


But this, she realised, this could be fun. Let’s see how that cretin would enjoy his little visits to Trenwith with Agatha there to haunt him!

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


From the day she discovered her new ‘talent’, Agatha started to enjoy her new condition.

  
  


So, she was a ghost. So be it. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t have a bit of fun.

  
  


At first, she hid little things, much to the annoyance of the whole household (except Geoffrey Charles; she would never poke fun at him, poor lamb). One day, it was Elizabeth’s hair brush or Verity’s needlework kit, the other, a few pieces of silverware. Servants would inexplicably drop plates or glasses on the rugs. Windows would fly open in the middle of the night, making them even colder. The maid who had complained about caring for the ‘old hag’ loud enough for all to hear, found her bed wet several evenings. She suspected the other maid, which led to more than one scuffle Elizabeth had to negotiate. The two other servants began to mumble about a ghost, correctly guessing that old Agatha Poldark was haunting them.

  
  


Agatha amused herself immensely. Her postmortem pettiness was a small payback for years of neglect.

  
  


But Agatha’s greatest pleasure was when George Warleggan was visiting. He would never leave without tea stained breeches. After a while, he began to wear dark coloured garments when visiting Trenwith. He still made the wind responsible for that. He reimbursed Elizabeth for a number of items that seemed to break all around him. What the ghost liked most, however, was just to hover uncomfortably close to him. He could feel the chill of her spectral body, and sometimes she amused herself by letting her fingers trail his neck or arms while he tried to compliment Elizabeth. Even George Warleggan had trouble being coherent when cold, undead fingers tickled his skin.

  
  


Alas, the more Agatha put her skills to use at George’s expense, the more he would come back, using the pretext of seeing his godson and comforting that poor Elizabeth. That upstart poodle was bad news; Agatha could feel it. 

  
  


One day, Verity left, abandoning Agatha once again. The traitress had to go back to her murderer of a husband. How could she? Wasn’t Trenwith more important than her selfish happiness?

  
  


Floating around the house and playing pranks on the servants became more and more boring with time. Agatha couldn’t eat her porridge, nor drink her port, and her tarot cards had betrayed her too many times to bring her satisfaction. The ghost was fed up with her after-life. She needed something more. A purpose. Perhaps, this could make eternity taste less bitter.

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


Then came the day when Mrs Chynoweth had a stroke. The seizure left her bedridden for the rest of her days, her mind blank and her gaze vacant, spit trickling on her chin.

  
  


Dr Enys gave Elizabeth an honest diagnosis and announced Mrs Chynoweth needed a full-time nurse to tend to all her basic needs. The young widow’s world crumbled once again. Her finances were already in a terrible shape. She just couldn’t afford the help her mother needed.

  
  


Agatha stayed in the corner of Mrs Chynoweth’s room, contemplating the terrible spectacle of dependency. The poor woman’s spirit just wasn’t there anymore. A proper death would have been more merciful.

  
  


A few hours later, a carriage arrived in the manor’s courtyard. When Agatha saw George Warleggan rushing out of it, she drifted to the parlour as fast as she could. This visit meant nothing good.

  
  


The ghost witnessed the pasty-faced man set his trap, as patient as a spider weaves its web. He offered his financial help to take care of Mrs Chynoweth, which Elizabeth elegantly refused at first, of course. But the wicked man, that one-eyed snake, had more than a trick up his sleeve.

  
  


Powerless, Agatha saw him corner Elizabeth, cajole her, breach her defences and make her an offer she could not refuse. And if his love declaration wasn’t enough, he flattered her, and promised her jewels, servants, and even a phaeton!

  
  


He left Elizabeth confused for a while. She didn’t say yes right away. But Agatha hadn’t missed the temptation showing in the young widow’s eyes. A better life for her son. And for herself.

  
  


"And the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world and the glory of them; and saith unto him: "All these things will I give thee..."

  
  


Those words from the very last mass her living form had attended resurfaced in Agatha’s mind. 

  
  


She had found her purpose. She must prevent this wedding.  
  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


Agatha felt very silly when she found out she could leave Trenwith. She hadn’t left home much, not even to go to Church, for the better part of a decade, it had simply never occurred to her that as a ghost, she could leave.

  
  


She took the first opportunity to follow George to Truro.  She didn’t trust that man. Never had. She would find out what his nefarious designs on Trenwith were.

  
  


And on her first evening already, when George and Cary sat down, she heard Cary talk to George about the time the Warleggans would own Trenwith. It was inferior to the Warleggans own, modern and lavish country seat, but one of the oldest houses.

Elizabeth’s suitor even bragged about how he had secured his hand of the woman he loved, and in so doing he had dealt the deadliest blow to his bitterest enemy.

  
  


Agatha didn’t need to hear more. Cary Warleggan did not appreciate the port wine stains on his exquisite suit after the bottle mysteriously upended itself onto him.

  
  


The marriage must be stopped. No Poldark would be associated with this family, especially not her beloved Geoffrey Charles. That boy reminded her of Francis when he was younger and happier.

  
  


She chided herself for such thoughts. Ghosts, she felt sure, were not meant to be sentimental. No, she needed to focus on sabotaging the marriage. And after that, she had an eternity to be sentimental and bemoan her fate.

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


When she went back to Trenwith the next night - she could not bear to part with dear Trenwith for more than two days - she found out that Elizabeth was very aware of her financial situation. She told her mother that she had to accept George’s proposal, reminding Mrs Chynoweth that George technically owned Trenwith because they’d never be able to repay the debts Francis had made.

  
  


Of course, Mrs Chynoweth could not reply. Elizabeth might as well have talked to a ghost as to her mother. Which she had, of course, without knowing it.

  
  


Agatha was more determined than ever: no dirty Warleggan fingers would touch Trenwith. George Warleggan was the devil.

  
  


If only she had paid more attention to financial matters. She had always left that to the men.

Which was stupid, for she had known that the last two generations of the Poldark men had been worthless, elf-skinned miscreants.

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


Elizabeth was pacing in the parlour of the now damp and cold manor. 

  
  


Marrying George would solve everything. She just had to accept his proposal, and all her problems would cease. She and Geoffrey Charles could live in opulence once again, and be as carefree as before Francis started squandering their wealth on gambling and whoring. 

  
  


Francis. From his portrait above the fireplace, the deceased man seemed to watch his wife’s turmoil with judging eyes.

  
  


“Don’t look at me with those eyes! It isn’t I who precipitated our family to ruin!”

  
  


The young widow huffed an embarrassed, nervous laugh. Now, she was talking to the dead! Being lonely didn’t suit her. Her decision was firmly taken. She would marry George Warleggan.

  
  


Unfortunately, she didn’t notice the words traced by ghostly fingers on the fogged up window.

  
  


Later, she found some of Agatha’s tarot cards lined up on the dining table. With a saddened sigh, she took them away and unfairly chided Geoffrey Charles for playing with them. Aunt Agatha’s predictions had been so ominous, Elizabeth couldn’t stand the sight of tarot cards anymore.

  
  


Agatha tried and tried to warn Elizabeth, but none of her subtle messages reached the young widow. The ghost had to work harder and play dirty.

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


On the pretext to help with the upcoming ceremony, Verity had hurried back to Trenwith as soon as she had received Elizabeth’s letter. A marriage? Involving George Warleggan? Poor Elizabeth must have gone mad.

  
  


As soon as she set foot in the old manor, the young woman sensed there was something odd about her former home. She was used to its draughts, but the place was now chillier than ever. The cold even seemed to follow her. With a shiver, Verity carried her belongings upstairs.

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


When she came to her room, Verity doubled back. There, on the dew on her window, somebody had written “Beware of Warleggan.” In her aunt’s handwriting.

  
  


Verity was a pragmatic girl. But she couldn’t help but whisper:

“Aunt?”

She shrieked when she felt an icy hand on her shoulder.

  
  


Elizabeth came running and Verity had to invent a big spider to get rid of her. She could not explain this to her sister-in-law.

  
  


With a fierce resolution not to pay attention to this nonsense, she readied herself for bed.

  
  


The next morning she found a tarot card on her bedside table. She should have paid more attention to what they meant when Aunt Agatha was alive.

  
  


“All right,” she whispered, feeling supremely silly. “Aunt, if you’re here, can you move the card?”

  
  


She muffled her scream with her hand when the card moved.

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


Little Verity was the most clever of the Poldarks and it had not taken her long to establish a system of communication with her deceased aunt. But it was not always possible to write on the window or in some dust ... not to mention that it took Agatha so much time to write with her finger. 

  
  


So Verity wrote “yes” and “no” on the back of an old letter and Agatha moved a coin between the words. In that manner, with a few additional written words, she soon got the story out of Agatha.

  
  


All the work she did now proved how valuable she was to Trenwith. Had she not run off with that Blamey fellow, none of this would have been necessary in the first place.

  
  


Stoic, Verity ignored the severe reproaches traced on her window. Now wasn’t the time to brood about the past, but to act to change the future.

  
  


So, Verity gave her old aunt very specific instructions about what to look for at the Warleggan’s bank and house and she very carefully prepared some notes that would vouch for the repayment of the Poldark’s debts in full. Her counterfeiter’s talents amazed Agatha. That girl was really resourceful. 

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


There was a reason Agatha had always let the men handle the business side of things: all this nonsense was confusing and boring.

  
  


But she managed to smuggle papers that would acknowledge that Francis paid his debt on George’s desk among small matters he needed to sign. 

  
  


Usually, he was diligent. But after three sleepless nights in a row because of icy fingers keeping him awake, he just signed everything on his desk. Seeing those dark circles under George’s red-rimmed eyes and knowing it was her work made the ghost cackle with glee. Setting traps wasn’t the Warleggans’ privilege anymore.

  
  


This part of the battle was won, but the war was far from being over.

  
  


Agatha just about managed to retrieve her vouchers before a clerk could. George chastised the poor man for letting the draught in.

  
  


After she had left the papers for Verity to pick up while she was in town, Agatha went through the Warleggan’s vault with diligence.  These greedy money grabbers had a neat filing system, she had to concede that. It wasn’t exactly hard to find the papers.

  
  


It was harder, as a ghost, to bring them to a fireplace. Paper floating around was bound to attract attention. 

  
  


Agatha waited for the servants to stack the wood for the fires to be kindled in the morning; a habit of the Warleggan’s bank that would now help the Poldark estate. She hid the papers in two separate fireplaces for safety. She could be confident that a tired maid would not notice the paper between the wood in the dim morning light.

  
  


But, to make sure, she kept a very boring watch. If only she had her tarot cards to keep her company...

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


Elizabeth was very confused when Verity demanded adamantly that they visit the Warleggan’s bank the day after.

  
  


It appeared, Verity explained, that all the debt had been cancelled; she had found papers to that effect in Francis’ desk when she had been looking for the last will of her grandmother, concerning a pair of earrings a distant relative had suddenly demanded. Of course, she had been more than surprised for she was certain that Elizabeth was riddled with debts. Such discovery deserved an explanation from George without further wait.

  
  


Elizabeth was not as confused as George, who looked at his own signature as if he had never seen it before.

  
  


“I assure you …” he stammered, under Elizabeth’s reproachful glare. Had he been deceiving her all these months since Francis’ death? Was this the reason Francis had been in such a good mood? That he had found a secret way with which to pay off the Warleggans?

  
  


Determined to clear up the situation, George sent a clerk to fetch the mortgages, the promissory notes and the obligations of Charles and Francis Poldark. 

  
  


While they waited, they all had some port wine to fortify themselves. They shuddered from time to time: Agatha was in a jubilant mood, fluttering around the room.

  
  


The clerk came back empty handed but also white faced; there was nothing, he declared, with the name of Poldark in the vault.

  
  


George disappeared hastily with the boy. After a while, the ladies could hear Cary Warleggan’s raised voice.

  
  


One hour later, George reappeared, holding onto the doorframe. He was apparently trying hard to keep his usual posture but failed.

 

Verity took no pity on the shaken man. She levelled him with her gaze.

  
  


“Well, Mr Warleggan? Am I correct to assume that my sister-in-law, in the stead of her son, my nephew, does not, in fact, owe your bank any money?”

  
  


“I … I cannot …”

  
  


“You cannot what?”

  
  


“I cannot explain … There is no indication in our books that the debt has been cancelled, but …”

  
  


Agatha would need to find this mysterious book and make sure it met an unfortunate accident involving an inkwell. Verity, meanwhile, rose and gathered all the papers.

  
  


“Well, Mr Warleggan, if you’ll excuse us, we have some shopping to see to.  Please call on my sister-in-law to let her know if you’ve found any evidence of her debt to you. Good day.”

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


George could not find any evidence. The next morning it was discovered that the book which recorded the transactions of the Warleggan bank with the Poldark estate had been placed near an inkwell that had mysteriously spilt overnight. It had been unwise not to put that book back in its place after going through it the evening before.

  
  


Elizabeth was fuming. She could not believe that George, the godfather of her son, who had pretended to be her friend, had deceived her so. To have tortured her with his insinuations about Francis’ debts, to pretend to be generous when this toad had known full well that she did not owe him a penny.

  
  


Her father tried to persuade her that they still needed the Warleggan money, they still needed someone to care for Elizabeth’s mother. But Elizabeth was having none of it. Now that poor dear Agatha had died, the servant who had looked after her might very well look after Mrs Chynoweth. They would get by.

  
  


***~~~~***

  
  


And just after Elizabeth had told George in no uncertain words that the wedding was off, a beautiful door hovered next to Agatha. 

  
  


It looked just liked the old side entrance to Trenwith, the one she used to run in and out of as a little girl. Charles had it bricked up decades ago. 

 

Now it beckoned Agatha once more, promising a new adventure. 

 

Her work at Trenwith was done.

**Author's Note:**

> After all the turmoil from last weeks, we thought that the Poldark fandom deserved a little something for Halloween.
> 
> We would like to thank Lakritzwolf once again, for her help and support. You rock!
> 
> As usual, we'd be delighted to read your thoughts!


End file.
